kabbos
In past stories, we’ve encountered wives who killed with shocking coldness and deceit. But here we reach the lowest depths—the sewer of betrayal—where lies the darkest soul of all: Manling Tsang Williams, a woman who not only slaughtered her husband, but also smothered her two innocent children with her bare hands.
And why?
For love.
Yes—that twisted, selfish kind of love that doesn’t elevate the soul but drags it down into darkness.
You might ask: Why kill them? Why not simply divorce her husband and walk away like countless cheating spouses do?
Because Manling didn’t just want freedom—she wanted erasure.
She wanted to burn the bridges, destroy all ties to her past, and step into a new life untouched by guilt or consequence.
Let’s go back to 2001.
That year, Manling married Neal Williams, a kind, soft-spoken man five years her junior. They lived in California and had two sons—Ian and Devon.
Neal was a devoted father and a gentle soul. He spent his days reading and playing with his children.
Manling, by contrast, was withdrawn and moody. Neighbors sometimes heard her yelling, hurling insults in fits of rage. But outside of the usual domestic quarrels, the marriage appeared normal—until the day she reconnected with her ex-boyfriend online.
It started innocently—reminiscing about old memories. But old flames rekindled quickly, and soon the two were meeting in secret, reigniting a passion they once shared.
Her lover urged her to leave Neal. He said he didn’t want to be involved with a married woman—especially one with children.
But Manling didn’t file for divorce.
She had a different solution—a final one.
On the night of August 7, 2007, after hours of chatting with her lover online, Manling told Neal she was going out with some girlfriends.
He waited for her return late into the night.
When she didn’t come home, he tucked the children into bed and went to sleep himself.
Manling didn’t return until just before dawn. She crept into the house with murder on her mind.
She climbed the stairs and entered the room of her youngest son, Ian, just three years old.
He lay sleeping, peaceful—angelic.
She picked up a pillow.
Pressed it to his face.
Held it there.
Pressed harder.
The boy writhed, gasped, fought for his life. But his mother didn’t flinch. No mercy. No regret. No soul.
When his little body stopped moving, she kept pressing—just to be sure.
Then she moved to Devon, her seven-year-old son. She killed him the same way.
Not a tear. Not a tremor. Not a hint of humanity.
What kind of mother does this?
Not even animals kill their own young.
She was no mother. She was a demon in human skin.
But her bloodlust wasn’t over.
Next came Neal.
And she had something special planned for him.
She walked into the guest room, where Neal kept a collection of swords. From the rack, she selected a Japanese samurai sword—famed for its deadly sharpness.
She entered the bedroom.
Neal lay asleep.
She didn’t hesitate.
With one savage strike to the head, she woke him into a nightmare. He screamed, stumbling, slipping on his own blood as she chased him, slashing him over and over.
His final words:
“Why?! Why?!”
More than ninety wounds later, Neal collapsed—a mutilated shadow of the man he once was.
Soaked in blood, Manling sat for a moment to catch her breath.
Then she showered, changed clothes, cleaned the crime scene, and wiped her fingerprints from the sword. At 7:30 a.m., she ran out into the street, screaming for help, crying that she had found her family murdered.
Police responded immediately.
Through tears, Manling told them Neal had once threatened to kill the children and take his own life.
But detectives weren’t convinced.
Who kills themselves with ninety stab wounds from a samurai sword?
There were no signs of forced entry. Nothing was stolen. No enemies. Neal was a beloved man whose life revolved around his children.
For a moment, it seemed like her plan was working.
But then—the slip-up.
During a second, more thorough search of her car, police found a box of blood-soaked rags, hidden in the trunk. She had used them to clean her prints from the sword—and forgot to dispose of them.
That evidence shifted suspicion—and when investigators uncovered her secret love affair, the case cracked wide open.
Faced with the truth, Manling broke.
She confessed.
In court, her defense tried to claim mental illness. They said she had a troubled childhood, acted in a moment of rage.
No one believed it.
Her methodical planning, her stone-cold demeanor, her calm behavior before and after the murders—everything pointed to a calculated, premeditated crime.
Prosecutors argued she had plotted the killings two months in advance.
The jury didn’t hesitate.
Even her lawyers didn’t dare ask for acquittal. The best they could beg for was life in prison.
But that wasn’t enough.
The court sentenced Manling Tsang Williams to death.
She remains on death row, awaiting her final destination—a place far more fitting than any prison.
